day at the races

The current consensus is that rock is well into its third generation. But the bands which have pulled the music furthest from its roots remain critically dismissed. There are reasons for such disdain. Lumped together as art-rock, such bands as the three above seem to threaten the artistic stature of anything less complex, or more simple.

When “A Night at the Opera,” released at about this time last year, turned into one of 1976’s most popular albums, the four musicians in Queen, who had been touring diligently for three years and doing all the other things you have to do to become fullfledged rock ‘n’ roll stars, had a tought decision to make.

It’s important in rock to know when to move to new musical ground and when to stick with what you’ve got. By staying close to the perimeters of last year’s hugely successful A Night at the Opera, Queen has another massive bestseller in A Day at the Races.

Okay, so they’re effete, flaky, fey. And proud. So, what? This (sort-of) sequel (self-produced) to A Night at the Operareeks of arch naivete. Freddie Mercury warbles with lunatic ebullience. There’s cracked innocence and frisky excess here.